


Scorched Earth

by walkalittleline



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Day 6, M/M, MENTION OF BLOOD/INJURY, Vollstrecker AU, clayleb week, mention of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 06:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkalittleline/pseuds/walkalittleline
Summary: After his first official assignment as a Vollstrecker turns sour, Bren finds himself in the middle of the cursed Savalirwood, lost and injured, where he stumbles upon a strange clearing with an even stranger inhabitant.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 32
Kudos: 266





	Scorched Earth

**Author's Note:**

> I’m very proud of this and I hope you enjoy it!

He can still feel the weak gush of blood under his fingers as he runs, stumbling over thick roots and vegetation in the near dark, the air bitingly cold around him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been running full tilt through the unfamiliar forest, each breath burning in his lungs and fatigue threatening to overtake him with each step. Fear and fury drive him forward, though, force his aching and trembling legs to take each step deeper into the forest.

_ Just five more feet. Five more feet. _

He’s been telling himself that for nearly an hour, barely paying attention to where he’s going now as he careens through the thick, gnarled trees that twist into the sky like so many crooked black claws. It aches to breathe, his dark robes soaked through with so much blood he’s starting to feel dizzy from it, staggering forward desperately but never daring to look back to see if he’s still being pursued despite the fact that he’s not heard the crash of foliage behind him for at least half an hour. 

His body is starting to fail him, the combination of blood loss and sheer exhaustion slowing him more with every step. Then he sees it, a break in the trees ahead, white moonlight pouring down into a clearing just visible between two halves of what looks to be a long broken and overgrown iron fence. He lets out a weak laugh of relief that sounds more like a wheezing sob, and lurches forward towards it.

He ignores the thorny brambles winding around the bent and bowed fences, barely feeling the way they tear at his hands as he drags his way up and through the opening, all but toppling through to the other side with a stifled cry of pain when he crashes onto the ground and tumbles in a heap. Pulling himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest, he stumbles forward, eyes darting around what he sees now is a wide clearing in the middle of the trees.

He’s struck by how much warmer he suddenly is, the infamous bitter frost of the Savalirwood somehow gone, replaced instead by a mild, humid heat even in the middle of the night. What’s stranger is that the foliage around him, from the grass to the trees and even the flowerbeds along what appears to be an overgrown cobbled path, is lush and dense and healthy. Nothing like the dead and blackened trees from the surrounding woods, the thick vines and vicious plants that seem hellbent on killing anything around them. It reminds him of the plant life he’d seen on his short trip to the southern tip of the Empire, verdant green and flourishing. 

The realization hits him even as he moves deeper into the clearing, slowing his steps as he feels suddenly wary of what he might find as the thought of powerful druidic magic comes to mind given his surroundings. The deep gash across his abdomen throbs and he grits his teeth, doubling over and pulling his hand away from the wound to see it dripping thick, dark blood onto the grass.

“_Scheisse_,” he mutters, wincing as the spot pulses with pain as his adrenaline begins to wear off, blood oozing from the wound. His head spins and he blinks rapidly, fumbling for his pouch and swearing angrily when he sees he has nothing left to try and heal himself with.

“Hello?”

He freezes at the voice, instinctively shrinking down to a crouch to try and gain some cover from a nearby bush. He squints through the darkness, one hand raised defensively, prepared to send an arch of flame at whoever it is approaching.

“Is someone there? I heard you.”

The voice is male, he thinks, deep and smooth, but the tone is merely curious, friendly almost, rather than warning, and Bren shifts to try and get a better vantage point to see the person making the approaching footsteps. He can just make out the shifting of their shape through the greenery. 

“Hello? I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

The voice is still weirdly pleasant, as if Bren hasn’t trespassed on their land at two in the morning. He’s not sure if he should be unnerved or relieved. Then the speaker rounds the corner where the path is lined with several trees and Bren finally gets a good look at them.

It’s a firbolg, thin and tall, with long pink hair tied back in a single braid. He’s dressed simply in a white silk tunic with a single long, flowing sleeve that’s sewn in a way that it looks like a delicate insect wing. He’s carrying a staff at his side topped with a chunk of purple crystal and Bren has the thought again that he must be a powerful druid. 

“I have a kettle on,” the firbolg says, craning his neck to peer around the bushes as he moves ever closer to Bren’s hiding spot. “If you like tea.”

Bren feels a moment of indecisive panic, in half a mind to try and kill this stranger and see if he has anything useful. But he’s nearly out of spells and he can feel his consciousness starting to slip from blood loss, so he puts on his most helpless expression and staggers his way out of the bushes towards the man.

“Help,” he croaks, clutching his side and digging his fingers into his wound as he allows himself to focus on the pain until tears begin to prickle they corners of his eyes. His vision swims dangerously and he nearly trips as his legs threaten to give way. “Please.”

The firbolg’s eyes widen at the sight of him, his instinctual defensive pose immediately dropping as he hurries to Bren’s side, looking shocked and unsure.

“Wha—“

Bren grabs the front of his shirt, smearing it with blood. He lets his lip quiver as tears spill down his cheeks. “Please,” he whispers. He coughs for good measure even though it makes his stomach throb painfully, a little shocked when blood sprays across the man’s chest and dribbles down his own chin.

“Hang on,” the firbolg mutters, wrapping one arm around his waist, seemingly resolved though he still looks half terrified. He presses his hand flat to Bren’s wound, muttering an apology when he cries out, nearly blacking out from the pain alone. He almost sobs in relief when he feels the familiar warmth of healing magic flow through him instead, pain seeping out of him like poison.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank… you….”

He passes out.

* * *

Despite his usual ability to know with pinpoint accuracy what time of day it is—a talent that had he’d often used to annoy Astrid and Eodwulf when they were young—he has no idea how much time has passed when consciousness starts to filter back to him. He’s aware of two things as he begins to wake. The first is that every inch of his body aches. He can feel the bruises and cuts throbbing with every tiny shift of his limbs, his hand automatically gripping the spot where he’s nearly been rent in two across his middle. His fingers are met with thick bandages that wind all the way around his waist.

The second thing he’s aware of, the thought sloughing through his brain like mud, is that he’s lying in a bed. A proper bed. There are soft pillows under his head and a thin sheet draped over his bare torso. He can’t remember the last time he slept in a bed that was more than a thin cot or a bedroll across hard packed earth.

It takes all his energy to force his eyes open, feeling like someone has attached heavy weights to his eyelids. He immediately winces and squints against the warm light filling the room, which blurs in and out of focus as his eyes adjust to the sunlight.

It’s small, cramped but homey, the walls and ceiling and floors all of white-washed boards, though it feels oddly comforting rather than harsh and sterile like the stark white rooms he used to spend days and weeks in, watching shards of green crystal push under his skin. The wall opposite the bed is curved, as if whatever building he’s in is rounded on the outside. There’s a paneless window in the curved wall, framed by gauzy white curtains that flutter lightly in the warm breeze drifting through the opening. The light streaming through the curtains is tinged pale green, like it’s been filtered through leaves, and he slowly begins to remember where he is, what happened the night before.

He tries to prop himself into a sitting position, grimacing and clutching his stomach. His body aches like he’s been beaten and he can barely manage to prop himself up against the pillow before he’s collapsing back against it, grunting softly even at the light exertion. The sound of rustling leaves and distant bird song drifts in through the window as he takes the opportunity to peer more closely around the room. 

Apart from the bed, there’s a single wooden chair and a small table at his bedside, a shallow wooden basin placed on the table full of murky water, a blood-soaked rag hanging over the edge and a mishmash of herbs and bandages scattered around it. The only other thing in the room is a single potted vine sitting on the window sill, its long tendrils creeping up around the frame and out through the opening in search of sunlight.

He’s still trying to gather his bearings when he hears approaching footsteps outside the closed door at the foot of the bed, accompanied by soft humming. He’s barely able to try and sit up straighter into some semblance of a defensive position before the door clicks and swings inward with a gentle squeak of hinges. The firbolg from the night before stops in the doorway, blinking in surprise at him, a jug clutched in one hand and several clean rags in the other.

“You’re awake,” he says simply.

“Who are you?” Bren says, harsh and demanding. “Where am I?”

The firbolg gives him an appraising look, seeming taken aback by Bren’s dropping of his act of the night before, before chuckling and moving further into the room. Bren traces his movement, one hand raised defensively. He watches him set down the jug and instead pick up the basin and stained rag from the table and move towards the window.

“My name is Caduceus Clay,” he says calmly as he tips the water turned brown with Bren’s blood into the pot on the sill. “And you’re in the Blooming Grove. You might know it better as the Bone Orchard.”

“No,” Bren says. He’s never heard either of those names.

The firbolg, Caduceus, returns to his side, tipping the jug into the empty basin and filling it with fresh, clean water. Bren realizes suddenly how dry his mouth is, though he’s not about to trust anything this stranger gives him. He watches Caduceus dip one of the clean rags into the water, wringing it out methodically. 

Bren flinches away, raising his hands, when Caduceus holds the rag out towards him. He pauses.

“I’m just going to wipe your face,” he says, gentle and reassuring like Bren is a caged animal. It might not be too far from the mark.

Bren lets his arms relax slightly, keeping a wary eye on Caduceus’ face and his other hand as he dabs the damp cloth lightly over his forehead and cheeks. It’s wonderfully cool against his heated skin and he can’t help but dart his tongue out to gather the few errant drops of water that slip down his face.

“You must be thirsty,” Caduceus says. He sets down the rag and picks up another one, dipping it directly into the jug and holding it out towards Bren like an offering. 

“I promise it’s not poisoned,” he says amiably when Bren merely stares at it.

He swallows, his mouth bone-dry, and his thirst finally wins out. He presses his lips against the rag, sucking greedily at the cool water as Caduceus squeezes it into his mouth. 

“Easy,” Caduceus murmurs, “you need to go slow.”

He pulls the rag back and Bren eyes the jug of water, his thirst nowhere near sated.

“I’ll give you more in a minute,” Caduceus says, seeming to catch where he’s looking. “Slowly, alright?”

He sinks down into the chair next to the bed, smiling affably, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knee. He’s wearing the same flowing tunic he was wearing last night, though he appears to have washed out Bren’s blood from where he’d grabbed him.

“I’d like to redress that wound if you’ll let me,” he says in that same polite, conversational tone.

“What wound?” Bren says, eyes not leaving his face.

Caduceus nods at the bandages bound across his middle and Bren frowns.

“Is it not healed?” he says. “I felt it, before… you healed me.”

“I did,” Caduceus says, now frowning himself, looking faintly stumped. “I’m not sure what did that to you but whatever it was isn’t allowing it to heal properly. Keeps opening itself back up. I’ve been trying to figure it out the last few days but I’m not quite there yet. I’ll get there, though, don’t,” he adds, smiling warmly.

“I don’t kno—did you say _ days_?” Bren suddenly sits up straighter despite the pain, his heart pounding frantically.

Caduceus nods solemnly. “This’ll be day three,” he says. “You’ve been out awhile.”

“_Verdammt_,” Bren hisses, raking his fingers through his short hair. “I need to leave. Now.”

He tries to push himself to his feet but barely manages to lift an inch off the bed before pain wracks his body and he falls back, shivering and nauseous, into the sheets.

“Whoa, whoa,” Caduceus says, already half-standing and easing him back carefully. “You are in no condition to leave here, friend.”

“I am not your friend,” Bren snaps, slapping his hand away and snarling.

Caduceus doesn’t seem put out by his anger, merely draws back and takes his seat again, leaning back and giving him a considering look.

“Fuck,” Bren mutters, scrubbing his hand down his face. He digs his palms into his eyelids, forcing white lights to pop in his vision when his eyes snap open again. He grabs at the spot under his armpit, panic striking so rapidly he feels dizzy. 

“My books,” he says, looking expectantly to Caduceus, who simply stares back at him. “What have you done with my things? Where are my fucking books?”

Caduceus stays silent, face smooth and impassive, and Bren wants to claw and scream at him, feeling all the world like the feral beast Caduceus seems to see him as.

“Your things are safe,” Caduceus says at last. “I had to undress you to treat your wounds. Trust me, I have no interest in stealing your books,” he adds with a chuckle.

Bren scowls at him but relents and leans back into the pillows, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child. 

“What is this place anyway?” he says, glancing around the room, the space filled now with gentle birdsong and the sound of wind blowing through the trees outside. He thinks he can hear a wind chime somewhere outside, tinkling with its soft, discordant melody.

“This is my home,” Caduceus says, spreading his arms and smiling. “A temple to the Wildmother and all Her glory.”

Bren makes a quiet, disgusted sound.

“Heathen gods,” he spits.

Caduceus chuckles again, shaking his head and looking almost amused.

“What’s your name?” he says, his fingers folded together loosely over his lean stomach as he sits back in his chair.

“Caleb,” Bren says, “Caleb Widogast.”

The lie and false name come easy with years of practice. He swears he sees a shadow of doubt pass Caduceus’ face and for a moment he panics, but then it’s gone and he’s smiling genially again.

“Well, Mister Caleb,” he says, standing and placing a hand on Bren’s shoulder. “I’m not sure where exactly your’re from, but I wouldn’t recommend going around insulting the people who save your life. Or the Goddess who helped do it. The next one might not be so forgiving.” There’s no threat behind his voice, but Bren still feels a chill down the back of his neck as Caduceus pats his shoulder before gathering up the dirty rags and heading back into the hall.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Caduceus calls back to him. “Then we can look at that wound.”

Bren stares after him, waiting until he hears the distant sounds of clinking dishware before snatching the jug from the table and guzzling down the water greedily, ignoring the way it spills out of his mouth and runs over his chin and neck as he gulps it down. He drains it, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and stifling a belch as he sets the empty jug back down, smacking his lips satedly. 

He shivers and pulls the thin sheet over him higher up his bare chest, pausing when his hand brushes the thick bandages across his stomach. He drops the sheet and touches the spot lightly, glancing back through the open door before he begins peeling away the dressing. A wave of nausea that he blames partially on the water sloshing around heavily in his otherwise empty stomach hits up when he pulls back the last layer of bandages, the final ones soaked through with dark blood. 

The gash from whatever spell had hit him is still there, as fresh as if it had just happened and slowly oozing blood, the skin split open to reveal the dark muscle underneath. He hurriedly presses the bandages back over the spot, wincing and trying to ignore the sour taste in his throat threatening to make him vomit.

Caduceus reenters the room then, holding a tray containing a gently steaming bowl, a hunk of bread and teacup.

“Alright, can you—”

He’s barely opened his mouth before Bren is grabbing the empty water jug and retching into it, water and stomach acid burning up his throat in a rush and splattering sickly into the jug. He vomits again, whole body shuddering as his stomach empties itself violently. Trembling and shivering, he sets the jug back down again, groaning miserably.

“I told you you needed to go slow,” Caduceus chastises him gently, sighing as he moves to shift aside the jug and basin so he can set the tray down. Bren’s stomach growls loudly as the smell of whatever the bowl is full of hits his nose, something earthy and hearty.

“Mushroom porridge,” Caduceus says as he holds the bowl towards him, “And some tea. You need something that will be easy on your stomach.”

Bren snatches the bowl from him and begins shoveling the porridge into his mouth ravenously, ignoring the spoon on the tray and instead digging into it with his bare fingers despite how hot it is.

“You’re going to get sick again if you don’t slow down,” Caduceus warns, though he doesn’t try to intervene.

Bren merely flashes him a glare before going back to eating, scraping out the bottom of the bowl with his fingernails and licking his hand clean. He’s not sure if it’s the hunger or just that Caduceus is an excellent cook but he thinks it might be the best thing he’s ever eaten after weeks of living of tack and whatever he was able to forage while he traveled.

He licks out the bottom of the bowl for good measure, wiping his mouth absently when he’s finished before setting the bowl aside and reaching for the tea. He drinks this more slowly, if only because of how hot it is, sipping carefully and sighing at the way it warms him from the inside.

“So you _ can _be civilized,” Caduceus says as he takes the seat again, smiling benignly when Bren narrows his eyes at him. 

“I saw the symbols on one of your books,” Caduceus continues as Bren picks up the bread from the tray, sniffing it before tearing off a hunk with his teeth. “I don’t pretend to understand them but those were Arcane glyphs on the cover, right? Is that what you do? Magic?”

Bren waves one hand, letting his fingers light with a subdued flame by way of responding.

“Ah,” Caduceus says as Bren douses the fire with another wave of his hand and rips off another chunk of bread, glaring suspiciously at Caduceus as he chews. 

“I’d ask you to keep that to a minimum while you’re here,” Caduceus says, gesturing around the wooden walls and floor. “Fire can be dangerous to a forest.”

Bren scoffs, swallowing thickly.

“I cannot do anything more than that anyway,” he mutters angrily. “You took all my spell components.”

“I told you,” Caduceus says calmly, “your things are perfectly safe. I can get them for you if you’d like.”

“I just want my books,” Bren says. “_Please_,” he adds through gritted teeth when Caduceus arches an eyebrow at him.

Caduceus smiles approvingly, standing with a grunt and heading back out into the hall. Bren realizes then that he has a long tail poking from under the hem of his tunic, ending in a tuft of pink that swishes and skims the floor as he walks. He returns after a few minutes clutching a bundle of Bren’s neatly folded clothes, the bag he keeps his spell components in, and, on top of it all, his two leather-bound books. He accepts them both eagerly when Caduceus holds them out, flipping rapidly through them both to ensure their condition and sighing in relief when they seem untouched save a few smears of blood across the covers.

“They’re alright, I assume?” Caduceus says, setting the rest of Bren’s things by his feet on the bed.

“Yes,” Bren mutters, tucking both books carefully under his pillow. He pauses, looking up at Caduceus. He wets his lips nervously. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“Thank me when I’ve figured out how to fix that,” Caduceus says, gesturing at the wound on Bren’s stomach. He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed by Bren’s knees. “May I?”

Bren nods, still feeling wary, though less so now that he has his books and components back. He watches closely as Caduceus removes the bandages completely, examining the wound with a furrowed brow, looking frustrated.

“I tried stitching it up,” he says as he dips a clean rag into the water in the basin and begins daubing away the dried blood from the corners of the cut. “The stitches stayed but it still wouldn’t close itself. Had to remove them before they got infected. It’s not bleeding too badly, at least.”

He rinses out the rag, setting it and the used bandages aside and picking up fresh ones from the table to begin redressing the wound again.

“I put some willow bark in your tea,” he says, nodding to the nearly empty cup Bren is holding. “Should help with the pain at least. How are you feeling otherwise?”

“Tired,” Bren responds wearily, suddenly feeling drained from the morning’s events. He’s not sure how he can be so exhausted after sleeping for apparently two and a half days. Though he supposes being unconscious doesn’t count as actual rest.

“Get some sleep,” Caduceus says as he finishes tying off the bandages. He pushes himself to his feet and begins gathering up the used bandages and the jug Bren had vomited into.

“I need to leave,” Bren says almost desperately. “I can not stay here any longer than I have.”

“And I can’t let you go running off into the Savalirwood in the shape you’re in,” Caduceus counters. “You’d be dead before nightfall.” He says it so matter-of-factly that Bren’s protests die in his throat. Even he knows how dangerous it is in those woods, has seen it himself first hand. 

Caduceus pauses at the door to look back at him, expression sympathetic and shrewd all at once.

“I don’t know what brought you here, Caleb,” he says. The name is jarring to Bren’s ears. “But I think it brought you here for a reason.”

With that cryptic declaration, he gives Bren another small smile before shutting the door behind him as he leaves. 

Bren sighs and settles back into the pillows, trying not to let panic eat away at his gut like it’s threatening to do. He pulls one of his books out from under the pillow and flips it open to the first blank page, digging a charcoal stick out of his bag and beginning to write. He’s asleep before he fills the page.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this please let me know, I’m considering making this my next multi-chapter fic if it gets good reception.


End file.
